


Mr. Skinner I thru V

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:28:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Skinner has some down time.





	Mr. Skinner I thru V

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Mr. Skinner Takes a Bath by Mik

TITLE: Mr. Skinner Takes a Bath  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: Skinner has some down time.  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything.  
If you like this, there's more at http://members.theglobe.com/Mikdok  
If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Mr. Skinner Takes a Bath  
by Mik

Long day. Hard day. Just one in a long, hard row of long, hard days. My briefcase feels as if I'm bringing bricks home, probably the ones the upstairs brass shit over Mulder's latest escapade. Mulder...there's a name

I could go a month without hearing. I wish I could just fling this briefcase through the window like a discus. I won't. People below could be hurt by the flying debris. It would be expensive to replace the glass. I like this briefcase. I have work to get done. I wish, however, sometimes I didn't think through the consequences before I acted. Just once I'd like to let go and do what I FEEL like doing.

Well, maybe I'll just skip dinner and take a nap or...a bath. That sounds good. A long hot bath. Sharon used to do that when she needed to unwind. Hmm. I'll give that a try. I could take that roll out I need to go over and--

No. No work. Nothing to remind me of what I'm trying to forget. Nothing where Mulder's name will surface. Mulder! Why does that man get under my skin? If anything can go wrong, Mulder will be there making sure it does. I'm amazed that partner of his has only shot him once. My stomach's eating me alive. I'm going to have an ulcer before I'm fifty. Thanks to--no, no more about him. For the next forty-five minutes, Spooky Mulder does not exist.

Feels good to be out of this tie. Look at you, Walter, do you ever change? Anyone who saw me these days would think I was born in a white shirt and conservative tie. Hard to believe I used to be the maverick who wore paisley shirts and psychedelic ties. Ugh...leisure suit flashback.

I'll hang the suit up later. It won't kill me to leave my underwear on the floor for an hour, will it? You know, Walter...you don't look too bad for a guy your age, a desk jockey, paper-pusher. The boxing pays off. Now, if only some of this hair was on my head...ah, well, there's bound to be a woman out there who could be attracted to a bald man--who works sixty hours a week and is so obsessive-compulsive that, despite all his good intentions, he's going to pick up his dirty clothes and carry them to the hamper before he gets in the tub. Oh, shit, Walter, you're hopeless, aren't you?

Steam feels good though. I wish I spent more time in the gym at the Hoover. And this water...shit, hot. But it feels good. Yeah, that's nice. I didn't realize I could stretch out so much in this tub. You could almost have two in this tub. It's been a long time since I took a bath with someone. Those were good times. Whatever happened to them? I remember one time in Sharon's mother's house when we...oh, that's all I need, to remember sex. Don't think about it. Think about the budgets, think about anything, think about Mulder.

It's been a long time since I've had sex, if even thinking about Mulder doesn't wilt this rod. Well, I'm not a Boy Scout anymore, a little five-fingered romance isn't going to send me to hell, and it just might help me sleep tonight. I guess it's true, no one knows you better than yourself. That feels good.

Now, what shall I think about? Come on, Walt, you've got every female in the world to fantasize about, what's your pleasure? Kim? Oh, no, I wouldn't be able to meet her eyes in the morning. Sharon? Never look back.

Agent Scully? Hmm...Agent Scully. Dana. She's lost a lot of weight since her bout with cancer, but she's still a good looking woman. Well fit, trim, nice little breasts. What's that word? Perky. Yes, I'd have to say Dana Scully's breasts are perky. They probably have a nice little bounce during sex. I wonder what Mulder thinks about her--

Damn it! Mulder, get the hell out of my mind, will you? I really object to you invading my sexual fantasies. Why am I constantly thinking of that little prick? Honest to God, there are times when I'd like to shoot him myself. No, I think it would be so much more satisfying to wring his blasted neck. I'd love to throw him over my desk and get my hands around his--oh, God, what an image. I wish I could wash my mind out with soap.

Come on, back to Dana's breasts. That's it. I can see her across my desk, her prim, Bureau drag suit open, her sensible white bra pushed up to expose her breasts, which bounce in rhythm to him driving into...him? Of course. I can't fantasize about her. I can't think about her without thinking about him.

I don't want to think about Mulder...damn you! I want to pick you up and throw YOU out the window like a discus.

Don't stand there and pout at me, Agent Mulder. I want you out. Out of my bathroom, out of my fantasy, out of my life. Don't run your tongue across that bottom lip. Don't stand there, hands on hips, pelvis thrust out, daring me to take a shot at you. Don't...just don't.

Oh, hell, is that it? Is that what I want? Yes, damn it. Sometimes I want to grab him and shake him and slam him against a wall, or across my desk...

I can see him, eyes wide in surprise, lips parted. Oh, shit, that mouth. I could devour that mouth of his. I could feel him squirming under me, mouth open in protest, then accepting mine, his hands scrabbling at the papers scattered over my desk, clutching at my shoulders, clawing at my tie. I could rip his perfect Armani suit to shreds just to get a look at his chest, his flesh, him. Turn him over, hard, fast, listen to his objection and then his concession. Hold him down with one hand, spread his ass with the other. Oh, that ass. Tight, firm, round. Penetrate him. Just once getting through to him. Listen to him yelp and then moan. Watch sweat bead up on the golden skin of his back, watch his hands trying to find purchase across the slick surface of my desk. Listen to his voice get husky and needy. Listen to him say my name. Listen to him scream my name. Feel his insides grip...feel him grip me...oh...oh, shit..."Mulder!"

Well.

That was...

I feel like rubber. I could sleep ten hours now.

That was nice. I should take a bath more often.

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Mr. Skinner Takes A Walk  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/Sk. This story contains m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: A sequel to Mr. Skinner Takes a Bath  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist...Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Sixth Season, no spoilers. They are against my religion.  
KEYWORDS: story angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. Of course, when I become king...  
This is a SEqUEL BY REqUEST for a Live Oak. And you're welcome. Thank you, my beta-mistress for the hard work, and the ooh's and ahh's for shadow puppets.  
If you like this, there's more at http://members.theglobe.com/mikdok/ (I don't Yahoo!) If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Mr. Skinner Takes A Walk  
by Mik

"...and while I appreciate that those things don't grow on trees, sir, I'd like to point out that this is the first one I've lost this year."

I have to get out of here. I can't stop looking at him. It's bad enough when he's talking, but when she starts talking, he just sits there and tugs at his lower lip. I can't take it.

I avoid their twin expressions of disbelief as I move to the door. I don't offer an explanation. Damn it, I'm their supervisor. I don't owe them one. But, I don't give Kim one, either. I just keep moving because I can't risk being caught. Not with these thoughts in my head.

I must look pretty angry; everyone's moving out of my way. Good. I have to get out of this building. There isn't enough oxygen in the whole place. I need air he isn't breathing.

What the hell's the matter with me? I must be losing my mind. It was an innocent little fantasy. Just something to ease tension and get some sleep. It doesn't mean anything. It certainly doesn't mean I'm gay, or, if it does, it doesn't mean I want Mulder, of all men.

So why have I been thinking about him non-stop since I sat down this morning? Why did I feel the stirrings of an erection when he and Scully arrived to go over yet another ridiculous expense report? And wouldn't you know he'd wear the dark brown suit, the one that makes his eyes green?

Shit. When did I start noticing that?

That's it, fresh air. Breathe. Clear your head. You're okay, Walter. It's okay to admit that he's attractive. Every female on staff and not a small number of men think he's attractive. You can't throw a stone around him without finding someone to comment on his ass. It wouldn't be abnormal for you to notice how he looks. He's got a nice...build, physique...whatever. He wears his suits well. He's got nice hair. He's got a great smile.

Great? No. Nice smile. He doesn't smile very often. Shit, when does he have cause to smile? So, when he does, it catches you by surprise. When he laughed at something Scully said this morning, I wanted to come across the desk and...and...

Breathe, Walter. Head toward the Park. Less crowded.

I can't believe I walked out of that meeting. No explanation, no excuse. Okay, I know I was seriously in danger of losing control and making an inappropriate remark or gesture and I did the right thing leaving. Inappropriate? Bullshit, I was thinking of shoving Scully out the door and field-stripping him like an assault rifle, but, damn it, a Marine does not run under fire. I should go back, apologize, tell them I had an emergency, and leave it at that.

Maybe they will have gone back to their office by now. But, I'll have to face them sooner or later. It's inevitable. Perhaps I could phone them, or email...Walter Sergei Skinner, you're a yellow-tailed, double-breasted coward. Get your butt back to the office and face them like a man.

But, breathe first.

This is a nice section of the Park. I don't think I've ever walked through here. I don't think many people do. Nice. Quiet. Secluded. You could get away with a lot back here and no one would be the wiser.

That knoll there, under the trees. I wonder how many couples have made love there during their lunch break? I wonder how he would look with grass in his hair?

Or that tree? The way the trunk splits would be the perfect place to make love standing up.

I could back him against that tree and he'd have nowhere to go except my arms. I could spend all afternoon licking and sucking his jaw, his throat, his shoulder. I can almost feel his nipples under the fabric of those silk blend shirts he wears. I can even feel the little tremor that would run through his body as I pinched them. And I would. I would pinch and tease them until he moaned and begged me for more.

And he would. Mulder always wants all the details, the full experience. It would be so easy to unzip his fly and find his cock, rampant, ready. I'd squeeze it roughly, make him ask me for release. He would. He would be eloquent even with inarticulate murmurs. And I'd stroke him, quickly, firmly, finding a rhythm that would make him throw his head back and destroy the silence of this place.

And when he was satisfied, I would pull him close to me, kiss him and ease him to his knees and reach for my belt, and--

"Sir? Are you all right?"

Shit. "Mulder. What the hell are you doing here?" And don't touch me.

"Well, sir, you've never been so mad that you walked out of a meeting on me before. Look, I'm sorry."

And don't look so wounded because I jerked away from you. "Sorry? What are you talking about?"

"The cell phone. We'll take it off the expense report. I'll buy my own this time. I'm sorry, sir. I really didn't mean to lose another one. "

"I don't give a d--. Never mind, Agent. You lost it in the line of duty." Stop frowning at me. Just go on back to the office. "Anything else?"

"Umm...no, sir."

"Well?"

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Except that I'm about a heartbeat and a half from pinning you to that tree, I'm fine. "I'm sure. I've just been...it's been...never mind."

"Sir, if you want to talk about it?"

"Go back to the office, Agent Mulder. I'll be along."

"I don't mind keeping you company, sir."

"Mulder."

"Okay, okay, I'm going."

Yes, Agent Mulder, it's true. You have a sexy ass. And this is a very nice part of the Park.

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Mr. Skinner Takes a Chance  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: All nature is but art, unknown to thee; all chance but direction which thou canst see ... Pope (Number Three in the Mr. Skinner Series.)  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But, when I become king ...  
Once again the Great Beta Mistress strengthens the ties between beta and author.  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop  
If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Mr. Skinner Takes a Chance  
by Mik

Friday night. The Shafford. Pretentious name for a pretentious bar where all the pretentious mid-levels go before they hit the trains for home, wife and kiddies. So what am I doing here?

Why am I sitting at the bar, an untouched Scotch between my hands, staring into space? I don't need to fortify myself before taking the paycheck home to the other half. I have no other half.

I have no other half.

In the mirror I can see myself, and I resent what I see. Neon beer signs reflecting off my glasses and my dome. Typical mid-level. Okay, I may not be as paunchy as most, or quite as bald as some, but the fact remains, I'm just a mid-level paper-pusher. And I am alone.

Sometimes I miss her so much I want to ... well, I'm not sure what I want to do. I think I would cry, but I can't. Somewhere, along a muddy road in a steamy jungle, I lost my tears. But, I do still turn at night, reaching for her. How many times did she turn for me, and I wasn't there for her? Even when I was in the same damn bed.

I'm tired of sleeping alone.

The barmaid sends a curious glance at my glass. I shake my head at her, sharply. The smile I almost got is stillborn. She turns away.

Of course I'm alone. I don't know the proper procedure for not being alone. I don't even know how to flirt anymore. Well, no. I don't think I ever did. With Sharon, I was a big, dumb jock, and she was a smart girl with dreams. What she ever saw in me ... I guess back then, she saw me as a mound of clay, and she was going to sculpt me into something wondrous. I didn't turn out wondrous. I turned out to be a big mound of clay.

I sip Scotch tentatively. The taste is warm and smoky and faintly unsatisfying. I'm not sure why.

No, that is a lie.

I know what I want to taste, and it doesn't come in a bottle. I want to taste the warmth of someone else's lips. I'm tired of coming home to an empty house, reaching for a ghost in an empty bed.

I've been introduced to all sorts of women since the 'suitable mourning period' passed. Everyone trying to fix me up, help me out, tie me down. Divorcees, widows, career women looking to settle down at last. All with an assessing gleam in their eye. I don't want that. I want ...

I empty my glass on a gulp. What I think I want I couldn't possibly want. Not that. Not him. Still ... I think of his eyes this morning in the Park; the concern, the warmth, the openness there.

I think of the way my imagination flamed at the thought of having him, holding him, possessing him, even for a few stolen hours under a tree.

The barmaid comes back. This time I nod. She takes my glass away and returns with another one, full, and she almost smiles again.

Mulder, I think, sighing inwardly. What is it about you?

You're so damned earnest. And very naive in some ways despite all your cynical speeches and poses. That sincere desire to drink from the well of truth is as strong and as palpable as the musk of a moose in mating season. And well ... just as arousing. I guess that makes me a moose.

I take a sip, consider the room around me again. All these men, sitting here, hiding from something that I yearn for. Yearn? No, that's not too strong a word. It's something deep and visceral. I want something--someone in my life. I want someone strong and compelling and ... someone with hazel eyes and a stubborn wave of brown hair, and a full mouth.

And a cock. Well ... I'm not all that sure about that ... no. That's a lie. I want that particular one.

I can almost see it. It would be long and lean, like him. Slow to entice to activity, because all of his hormones, all of his blood, his breath, his bones are focused on that Truth. But, I think I could help him find a little truth in me.

What could I say to him? How could I ask him if he would consider me? What if he isn't interested in this truth? 'Agent Mulder, I've decided I want to improve interdepartmental relations, and I've decided to start by having relations with you.' I don't think so. 'Fox, are you for or against homosexuality, and if you're for it, how would you like to be against me?' I REALLY don't think so. 'Mulder, in two minutes I'm going to walk across this room and kiss you. If you object, you can leave now. If you're still here in two minutes ...'

I sigh and take another sip. I think about the look in his eyes when I brushed him off this morning. I think of the genuine care and concern when he almost shyly offered me his home phone number, in case I wanted to talk.

Why would he do that? I have his damned number. Why would he think I'd want to talk to him after hours about a personal matter ... unless he wanted to listen to me after hours about a personal matter.

I dip my hand into my jacket pocket. Yes, that slip of paper is still there. It almost burns my fingertips.

But what if he said no? What if he laughed? What if he reported me? I'd be hurt, humiliated and quite possibly without a job.

And I'd still be alone.

But what if he said yes? What if he was still there when his two minutes were up? What if he crossed the room first, took me in HIS arms? What if he kissed ME?

Is there a moose in this room?

Resolutely, I empty my glass, and signal for my check. I send my eyes around the room again. There. That's what I need. I reach into my pocket, and drop money on the counter. Fingers curling around a piece of paper, I walk slowly to the back of the bar.

I pick up the receiver. I swallow.

I hear the dial tone. I hear my heart pounding.

I enter the number. I'm out of my mind.

I drop the required change in the slot. Stop. Turn back. Don't do this.

I hear it ring. I've got to know.

"This is Mulder." No. Don't.

"Agent Mulder, I was wondering if that offer to talk was still open?"

THE END 

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Mr. Skinner Takes a Lover  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: All mankind loves a lover ... Emerson (Number Four in the Mr. Skinner Series.)  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But, when I become king ...  
Thanks to the beta-tiger for making all my lower-cases into upper-cases.  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop  
If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Mr. Skinner Takes A Lover  
by Mik

I don't know what I'm doing standing outside this door.

That's not precisely true. I do know I'm gritting my teeth, sweating and inwardly trembling. But I don't know what business I have standing outside this door. I don't want to knock. I gave my hand a direct order not to knock, but it did so, anyway. Utterly faithless, that hand. I want to turn away quickly, get out of the hall before he answers, but my feet refuse to move. It's a mutiny.

I hear his steps. I hear the bolt slide back from the lock. I hear the knob turn in its chamber. Over all of that I hear a roaring in my ears. I can't be doing this, and yet, here I am, working up a false expression of calm as the door swings open, and he stares at me.

He's working on a false expression of calm and all. But he is trying to fight down fear and dread and painful curiosity. What do you know? Agent Mulder and I have finally achieved parity. "Sir?" he says, quietly. "Are you all right?"

I nod. "I just wanted to have a little discussion--that is ... I wanted to ask you ..." I stop, reminded of days in high school, coming off a football field, and there was a cool blond in dark glasses and hiphugger jeans and I wanted so badly to ask her for a date. Big dumb jock that I was, I asked her if she had any matches. As if either of us smoked! "Agent Mulder, may I come in?"

The anxiety is back in his eyes. He backs up a step or two, lets me over the sill and gestures faintly toward his all purpose, all existence room. As I take a seat in the only chair in the room, he passes me, and slumps down on that greenish leathery thing. I've heard he sleeps on it.

I take a look at him, only just noticing he has changed from the brown suit he was wearing earlier to a pair of baggy grey sweats and a tee shirt that reveals a lot of his lanky frame. His hair is slightly askew, and I notice there is a bunched up pillow at one end of the sofa. "Mulder? Did I wake you?"

He jerks up, sitting very straight. Then sags a little. "Musta' dozed off."

"But it's only ..." I check my watch. When the hell did it get to be ten o'clock? I start to rise. "I'm sorry. I'll come another--"

He stands, too. "No, no, sir. It's all right. I'll make us some coffee."

I hold him off. "No, that's all right. I'll be brief." I wait 'til we both are seated again. He looks glorious rumpled like that.

"Sir?" His brow is wrinkled up like a worried pup.

"Yes." I bring my eyes to the table between us, littered with file folders, suspiciously named newsletters and a few Polaroids. Mulder never stops working.

"You said you had something personal you needed to discuss," he prompts.

I continue to stare at the table. I wanted to do this. I NEEDED to do this. But, can I do this? "Yes," I repeat. I cannot look at him. But I can feel him. Sense him. Smell him. For a moment, I can imagine him, sprawled over this mess of his mania on the table. I see his eyes imploring me to finish what I started, finish him. I can see the short, sharp pants of breath, the rigid, quivering cock. I can even see myself buried to balls in a place so tight, so hot I think for a moment I've mistaken a geyser for Mulder's ass.

"I'll make coffee." He moves before I can stop him. Reluctantly, I rise and follow him.

Mulder in the kitchen. An anomaly in motion. Puttering around, spooning coffee into a filter, rinsing the carafe. Pushing the button that starts the brewing process isn't enough to calm him. He starts looking for cups in his embarrassingly bare cupboards. He pulls milk from an equally bare refrigerator, sniffs tentatively, and puts the carton in the sink. "I hope you drink it black," he mutters.

For a moment, I have an urge. An irrational, unforgivable, inexplicable urge. I want not to fuck him, but to hold him, feed him, cuddle him. But, then he bends over to get a small box of the pink stuff from a cupboard, and I have to physically restrain myself to keep from slamming him against the counter and dragging his sweats down over his ass.

He straightens, puts the box next to the cups and as he does so, catches the end of my hungry stare. He turns, leans back against the counter and drums his fingers against the sides, revealing agitation. "It will be a few minutes, sir," he informs me. "If you want to go sit down, I can bring it to you."

"No, I don't mind waiting." I try to make myself comfortable against the doorframe. I am not comfortable. I feel like a fool. But, I also feel as if I can't not know. "I wanted to talk to you on a personal level ... that is, about something personal. I know you're a psychologist, and I was wondering if you could give me an opinion on something. Your ... clinical opinion."

He grins at me. "About to tell me something that's happening to a 'friend' of yours?"

I have to smile, feeling just a bit sheepish. "No," I confess. "It's me. It's happening to me."

The grin vanishes. "I'm listening," he says, softly.

"Last night something rather unusual happened to me. And I haven't been ... all day I've been ... I can't seem to stop thinking about it."

He shrugs. "That's not uncommon. We all fixate about unusual experiences. Look at me. I've been fixated on the same--"

"It wasn't a thing," I blurt out. "It was a person. I had thoughts about a person."

He opens his mouth and I can just see the smart-alec reply bubbling out of him. But he catches himself, pauses and looks at me, quite serious. "You had what you considered inappropriate thoughts about someone?" he asks, gently.

I nod, shame welling over me. I have to go. I start to back up, but his hand is on my arm again. Don't touch me, Mulder. I might not ever let go.

"Is it Scully?" he asks, with such patience and kindness I want to smack him, hard.

I shake my head. "Why would you think it was Scully?" I demand, brusquely.

"Because you got up and walked out ... on ... us ..." His eyes grow round. "Sir? Is it me?"

I turn away from him, knowing, feeling my flesh burning right off of me.

He sags back against the counter, looking bemused. "I'll be damned," he murmurs. "I haven't lost my touch."

I jerk around. "What?"

He shrugs. "I haven't been propositioned since I left college. I thought I'd lost my looks or something."

You? I think incredulously. You will make an alluring cadaver. "Are you saying you're a homosexual?"

He shakes his head, pursing that lower lip. "Not really. Bi, maybe. Haven't been with another man since I left England, but I did have something of a reputation there. They called me 'Yank, the tank'."

"The tank," I repeat doubtfully.

His eyes trail down. "Well, I was considered well-endowed. Maybe it was just college."

This I HAVE to see. "So, why no men since college?"

It is his turn to stare, incredulous. "I was recruited right out of college to go to work for the U.S. Government. When you work for the Federal Bureau of Intolerance, you just try not to have inappropriate behavior. Well ..." he laughs, self-deprecatingly. "You try." His gaze comes back, pinning me in place. "I take it you've never ...?"

I shake my head. "I don't know where it came from."

He moves toward me and slaps me on the shoulder. "I don't have time to do my Freud imitation, or I'd tell you." His fingers squeeze me. "I'm flattered. Really. I always thought the only interest you had in my ass was how far you could drop-kick it across the mall."

Now I am truly confused and frightened. What do I say? How do I ask? Is he trying to let me down gently?

He leans forward, and kisses me, very softly. "Now, you've told me. Do you want to sleep on it a couple of days?"

I focus on him.

"Or do you want to explore this dark side of your psyche tonight?"

His kiss. It was warm and soft and hinted of so much more. I'm mesmerized. "You're the doctor," I mutter.

He laughs. That laugh I see so very seldom. His head tips back, his eyes close, his mouth curves up and this ... sound emerges from the depths of him. "Who would have known you had a sense of humor, sir?"

"Walt," I say, stupidly.

He stops laughing, which proves it was stupid. "I'm sorry?"

"Walt. Don't call me 'sir'. It feels strange here."

"Okay." He swallows. I can watch the movement of his throat and I want him to be swallowing me. "I'm a little out of practice and you're a virgin, so I don't think we ought to be rushing into this headlong--or maybe that's how we should be rushing into it." His eyes go over me, and I see assessment in them, and it not only doesn't bother me, it enflames me. I resist an urge to straighten into full attention. "Are you sure this is what you want to do? I mean, now that you've told me, maybe it won't be an obsession anymore. You're not bound by what you said. I'll consider it doctor-client privilege and we'll never mention it--"

I grab the back of his neck and pull him against me, and kiss him. Yes, that's what I've been yearning for.

He laughs, softly, against my mouth. "That's what I was hoping you'd decide ... Walt."

-THE END-

 

* * *

 

TITLE: Mr. Skinner Takes His Time  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
CATEGORY: SRA  
RATING: NC-17. M/SK. This story contains slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution.  
SUMMARY: Art is Long and Time is fleeting ... Longfellow. (The last of the Mr. Skinner Series.)  
FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... Flames? Send 'em to my brother, he's having a barbecue.  
TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: No thanks, against my religion.  
KEYWORDS: story slash angst Skinner Mulder NC-17  
DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century FOX Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. But, when I become king ...  
And thanks to the beta-mistress who made a man over lunch and a story over tea.  
If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop  
If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog.

* * *

Mr. Skinner Takes His Time  
by Mik

He lays beside me, his mouth searching mine, his tongue probing, his fingers stroking, his leg draped over my hip to pull me closer. This is no masturbatory fantasy. I am here, on his bed (yes, to my surprise, he has one), with him in my arms. I am acutely aware of the way his cock slides across mine with every movement. He is silent, his eyes closed, but he is alive within my embrace.

I am slightly daunted by this unexpected reality. Two days of madness, wrestling with a forbidden desire, and now I am wrestling with him. Tentatively, I slide my fingers through his hair. It is soft, silky, warm. He opens his eyes at my caress. I feel his lips turn up in a smile against mine. Emboldened, I let my fingers play down around the shell of his ear, along his throat, and over those tiny, flat nipples that harden at my touch, eliciting a shudder from him.

I have never touched a man so intimately before, and I marvel at the differences; not just the obvious, but subtle things, like the sensation of his skin. The women I've known have been soft, cushioned with flesh, curved and firm and familiar. He is soft and yet hard, skin spread taut over muscle and bone; strong arms, broad chest, lean hip, flat belly.

And, of course, that cock. 'Yank, the tank' was no derisive taunt. He is unexpectedly long and thick, with a crown I couldn't get my fingers around, purple, and proud. I find myself stroking it, slowly, savoring the silkiness of it as it slides through my fingers. At my touch, his head rolls back, his lips part, he sighs. "Oh, God, that's good."

I'm not sure what I want to do, but I understand that I want more from this initial coupling than to jerk him off. He has warned against rushing 'headlong' into this. Later I'll muse on this strange show of restraint. I have always found him to be rash and impulsive, but I think in this situation he has shown exceptional wisdom.

He seems to understand and rolls onto his back, legs parted, and his fingers on my shoulders cajole me to follow him. For a moment, I only look, consider my prize; fine lean body, impressive cock, strangely beautiful and compelling face. Then I cover his body with mine.

This. This is what I've been waiting for. The heat that fuses us together, lips, fingers, groins. I feel his hips rock under me and our cocks dancing together. Far more intense, far more satisfying than any fantasy.

I grasp his face between my hands, kiss him deeply, trying to say all the things that I do not have in me to say aloud. I need him to know what he is giving me. I need him to understand how much I need it.

He returns my kiss, murmuring something against my mouth, and then against my ear. I don't recognize the words; it may be a foreign language, it may be mystical tongues, but I comprehend the desire expressed in it. His hips rock harder against me. He wants me to take charge, finish him, finish us.

I've waited too long for this to have it end so quickly. I hold his hands down, and put the weight of my thighs around his, pulling his legs together, holding him still, and stroke my cock across his body like a bow across a violin.

And I can make him sing like one. First stroke and his head rocks back. Back stroke and his mouth opens, his tongue between his teeth. Another forward stroke and he moans deeply, a base reverberation against my melody. Back again and he sighs and whispers, "Oh, please."

Three short strokes across his balls, a pizzicato in pleasure. And he answers with soft high prayers. "Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please."

His fingers are twisting beneath mine, searching for something. His eyes are shut tight now. Breath rushes in and rushes out at each draw of my bow. I can almost hear the thrum of his heartbeat over mine.

Once again I move across him and he clutches at air. His eyes open and search mine. I have seen him impassioned, I have seen him deranged, but I have never seen him so utterly lost to sensation. The way he lifts his eyes Heavenward I suspect there are seraphim behind me.

My own blood is surging now. I know I am grunting each time he responds with movement; a twitch, a shudder. My bowing grows faster, from a soft lament to a hot fiddle. And his moans and imprecations grow faster. I know he is only moments away from release.

I pause, and look down at him. He stares at me, incredulous. His face is flushed, his skin glowing with perspiration, his breath ragged. He looks at me, in almost heartbreaking entreaty. "Please, Skinner," he says.

I resume the glissade, and as I do, I take his mouth with mine. I want to hear him, feel him, taste him come. He moans into me, and his fingers curl up around my wrists.

Our perspiration and pre-ejaculate have joined to make a slick hot slide between us. It is easy to drag my erection over his, finding every sensitive spot for both of us. His thighs begin to tremble. Or is that mine? One of us is yelling. There is a flash fire of heat between us.

First him.

Then me.

I collapse against his shuddering body, listen to him gasp, listen to his heart pound, listen to him laugh softly in disbelief.

His hand slides up and over my scalp. "I'm sorry I lost the cell phone, sir," he says with what would have to be called a giggle. "Is that the way you plan to punish me in the future?"

I roll off of him, consider his face. It is a beautiful face; his eyes are bright with green fire, his color is high, he is ... yes, he has a great smile. "Next time you lose a cell phone, your ass is mine," I growl.

He struggles up enough to kiss me, roughly. "Do you have any idea when I get my next one? I know JUST where I plan to lose it."

I catch his chin, hold him steady, study his face. Clarity. I have been thinking about this face a long time. I kiss him back, almost tenderly. "Well, as long as you can find it after you've been punished," I answer gravely.

This only makes him laugh harder. He falls back into the pillows, rubbing his eyes. "I don't believe this," he gasps. He touches his stomach, and grimaces. We're both a sticky mess. "One of the down sides," he says, ruefully. "Be still." He rolls off the bed. "Gay etiquette rules that the host be the one to get up and get towels and things."

'Gay etiquette'? I lay on my back and listen to him wander around the apartment. Did I think that far in advance? No.

He must catch me frowning as he returns, because the laughter is gone from his eyes. He kneels beside me on the bed, solemnly wiping away any evidence of our duet. "You know, this was just a free sample; no obligation stated or implied."

A door. An exit. A way out. An escape.

I look at his expression, the eyes fixed on the towel in his hand. I think of the laughter I saw only moments ago. Board up the doors and windows. I don't want out. I tug at the towel to get his attention. "Where do I sign?"

And now ... Mr. Skinner takes a bow. 


End file.
